


A Letter to Juliet (Answered by Feliciano)

by Thats_Amore



Series: Letters to Juliet Verse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American History, Background GerIta - Freeform, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Inspired by Letters to Juliet, Jealousy, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nationverse, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thats_Amore/pseuds/Thats_Amore
Summary: After seeing the movieLetters to Juliet, America is inspired to write a letter about Romano and the unrequited love he's been harboring for almost 90 years. He hopes to get a response from a stranger in Italy, but Veneziano answers the letter instead.
Relationships: America & North Italy (Hetalia), America/South Italy (Hetalia), North Italy & South Italy (Hetalia)
Series: Letters to Juliet Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838548
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	A Letter to Juliet (Answered by Feliciano)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the film _Letters to Juliet_. This fic takes place in October-early November 2010. The idea of Spain/Romano is discussed throughout (mostly about how it makes America jealous), but there's no actual onscreen Spamano.

America sniffled at the end of the beautiful, admittedly cheesy film and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. “Wow, that was really good.” He turned to his friend, who had been sitting next to him munching popcorn the entire time. “What did you think, Tony?”

Tony looked thoughtful, at least as far as America could tell. Tony’s expressions were difficult to read since he didn’t have human facial anatomy, and it didn’t help that he usually spoke in one or two-word sentences laced with a lot of profanity. But America always tried his best.

“Italy,” he pronounced. He glanced at America. “Romano, bubu?”

“Yeah, it reminded me of Romano too.” The film had been set in northern Italy, but that was a technicality. Romano was the Italy America knew best.

Tony’s next sentence sounded melancholy, for him anyway. “Fucking Romano.”

“Yeah, I miss him too, little buddy.” America sighed deeply. “Sometimes, this house feels too big for just you and me. And Scout, Commodore, Ace, and Cavalry, of course.” America had a cat, a whale, a bald eagle, and a unicorn he couldn’t see, and he had his alien friend Tony. But occasionally he missed the human companionship he’d had during the 1920s, when Romano and Lithuania had lived with him.

America hadn’t fully acknowledged until a couple decades ago that he missed Romano in a much different way than he missed Lithuania. With Lithuania, he missed the peaceful silences as they drank coffee in the garden side by side, and he missed the way they could comfortably talk about their pasts even when the conversation strayed into sensitive territory. He cared about Lithuania’s welfare and worried about how Russia would treat him once he had been forced to leave. With Romano, he missed foreign cursing and a pretense of hostility mixed in with genuine concern and delicious Italian food, and he missed a laugh that made his heart skip a beat whenever he heard it. He cared about Romano too, and when Romano reluctantly left to go back to a country that had fallen under fascist rule, America had been so damn sad that he drank an entire bottle of illegally smuggled wine in one sitting. When he woke up the next morning with an awful hangover, he didn’t have anyone to scold him for not taking care of himself, and the kitchen didn’t smell of the espresso Romano liked to make as soon as he stumbled out of bed in the morning. He thought of their hug goodbye, and the memory of warm, slender arms around him made him inexplicably lonely. For the next few years, America drank to forget that loneliness, but then FDR came into office, noticed the problem, and helped America cut down his alcohol intake to a reasonable level. These days he was careful, and he only drank among friends, usually at celebrations like New Year’s Eve, and he never imbibed more than a glass or two.

America thought of Lithuania when they spoke or texted on the phone, when he saw him at official meetings, or when he crossed paths with an American of Lithuanian ancestry. He thought of Romano at similar times, but at others too, like every time he heard a really good love song, and not just the ones by Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin. At the most recent world meeting, when he saw Lithuania sitting between Estonia and Poland, he was glad to see how relaxed Lithuania seemed to be in their company and happy that Russia wasn’t doing anything to scare him. When he saw Romano sandwiched between Veneziano and Spain, his gut churned in what America could only unhappily label as jealousy at the way Spain kept calling Romano _mi tomate pequeño_ and making him blush.

So yeah, he was in love with Romano, but in a completely one-sided and pathetic way. Most of the time, he tried to avoid thinking about it, since it was a depressing topic, but now it was the only thing on his mind as the movie credits rolled past him on the screen.

Tony stood up. “Need fucking sleep,” he informed him.

“Okay. Goodnight, Tony.” His alien friend left the room, and America didn’t have anything else to do in his absence. He got up and took the DVD out of the player, which left the television on the news channel he had been watching earlier.

America took his laptop off the table and opened it up. He wondered if that “letters to Juliet” thing was actually real, or if it had just been some gimmick invented for the movie. A quick Google search taught him that it _was_ real, and that he could write a letter like that to an address in Verona and actually get an answer back. It would’ve been cool to actually go to Verona, see the house where Juliet had supposedly lived, and post his letter up on the wall, but there was no way he had time to fly out to Italy on a whim. (Also, his boss would probably ask what he was doing, and as nice as Mr. Obama was, that wasn’t a conversation America wanted to have with him.) So, if he did this, he’d do it via snail mail or the email option on the Juliet Club’s website. America did a lot of things by email these days, but this didn’t require an urgent response, and it might be nice to write an actual letter for a change. He could pour out his heart, pay some postage, and get a response from whatever kind Italian woman decided to offer him advice.

America set down his laptop and headed off to the study, where he had the good stationery and that lucky fountain pen Eisenhower gave him just before he and England landed on Omaha Beach. He needed as much luck as he could get.

* * *

Veneziano appreciated his days off, when he didn’t have to work on various political matters alongside his brother in Rome. On his days off, Veneziano could sleep in as late as he wanted, enjoy a full riposo in the afternoons, and just walk around one of his cities and spend time among his people as a regular young man. The people and their unique national spirit were what gave life to any nation, and Veneziano was grateful for his.

Since he was the representative for North Italy, he usually spent his free days in the north while his brother traveled further south, primarily to Sicily or Naples. Today, Veneziano was in Verona, heading towards the little red-brick building near the railway tracks where the Club di Giulietta did most of its work. The secretaries of Juliet were a charming local tradition, and Veneziano enjoyed offering his services and his skill at corresponding in multiple languages whenever he could.

He knocked on the door and was greeted by the club president’s daughter, who cheerfully called out his human name and gave him the traditional Italian greeting of two cheek kisses. Soon, the others in the office arrived, and Feliciano was surrounded by adoring women along with a middle-aged man named Stefano who was just as friendly.

“It’s been much too long,” Carlotta declared, pulling him into a room with a round table and letters sorted out into little bins. “But you came at a good time. We’ve been flooded with letters in English since the release of that _Letters to Juliet_ film.”

Veneziano laughed. “Americans do love their romantic comedies.” He didn’t know if America himself had seen the film, but it was definitely something Veneziano could playfully tease him about at the next world conference. It’s not as if the nations ever managed to get serious work done at those meetings anyway.

Veneziano took an empty spot at the table and was passed a pile of letters, along with a pen and a set of stationery. “If you could get started on these, I would appreciate it.”

“Certo.” Veneziano immediately pulled the first letter off the stack and set to work.

The letters bore a certain similarity after a while, usually young people who were torn between different love interests, afraid to pursue a particular individual, or worried that they would never find love at all. There were the odd school assignments based on Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_ , which irritated Feliciano since he could tell that they had been written in a perfunctory manner by people who weren’t seeking romantic advice at all. Veneziano answered each individual letter as helpfully as he could and consulted with the others at the table when he encountered a particularly heartbreaking message from a woman who had discovered that her husband had been cheating on her with her own sister. (The table universally agreed that she deserved better and ought to confront both the adulterous cad and the disloyal sister. Gianna, who was hotheaded like his brother Romano, remarked that she should string them up by their shoelaces. Veneziano responded with the moderate advice given by the more sensible members of the club.)

Veneziano’s correspondence was going swiftly as usual until he encountered a letter in a thick cream envelope. When he saw the name written in the top left corner, his jaw practically fell to the ground.

Stefano, who was sitting across the table from him, noticed and looked at him with concern. “What is it, Feli?”

“This letter is from someone I know. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to answer it.” America was an ally and a cordial acquaintance, but he had always been closer to Romano than to Veneziano. He and America weren’t close enough to discuss their personal lives beyond the surface level and certainly not close enough for America to confess to whatever romantic troubles he had written about in this letter. In fact, up until this point, Veneziano had no idea that America was anything other than content with being single, much less that he had the sort of problem that would lead him to seek advice from an anonymous stranger.

“Maybe that’s why you should answer it,” Gianna argued. “Since you know him personally, you understand a lot more about him than any of us do. You could probably give him better advice.”

The others at the table nodded, and Veneziano wavered. Perhaps his instinct to pass on the letter was wrong after all?

Carlotta took his hand and squeezed it gently. “It’s up to you, dear. Whatever makes you feel most comfortable.”

“I… I think I’m going to answer it.” He would treat the letter as if he were writing to a stranger, and he would take the secret of whoever it was about (whether it be another country or some human America had grown close to) to the grave.

“I think that’s a wise choice.” She released Veneziano’s hand and stood up from the table. “I’m going to make some more coffee. Don’t be afraid to ask for help from me or one of the others if you need it.”

“I won’t.” He wouldn’t feel great exposing America’s secrets (even if he could disguise them as the secrets of some random young man from the U.S.), but he wouldn’t let the letter go unanswered if he had no idea what to say.

Carlotta’s sandals clicked against the hardwood as she walked off to the kitchen to brew more coffee. The scratch of pens and rustling of paper continued as the others composed their responses, and Feliciano gathered the courage to turn the envelope to the back. He smiled slightly at the wax seal containing an image of the American flag and used a letter opener to slice open the envelope. If America was going to be old fashioned, then so was he.

Inside were three pieces of unlined, cream-colored stationery with a stylized monogram of Alfred’s initials at the top of each page. America had written the letter in neat, evenly spaced print, and his handwriting was straight despite the lack of lines to guide him. Amusingly, he had dotted his I’s and J’s with tiny stars instead of the customary dots. Veneziano took a moment to prepare himself for the secrets he was about to read, and then he dove right in.

_Dear Juliet,_

_I never thought I’d write a letter seeking romantic advice from anyone, especially a fictional character who died centuries ago on another continent. But after seeing the film Letters to Juliet_ _(highly recommended, by the way), I realized that you might be the only person in the world I could speak honestly to._

_Juliet, I am in love— a love that fills me with nostalgia for a bygone era, that keeps me up into the early hours of the morning, that makes my heart ache with longing every time I see an authentic Italian restaurant,_

“Oddio?” He hadn’t expected this letter to be about him or Romano. (He assumed it couldn’t be about Seborga, since as far as he knew, America had never even spoken to a micronation other than Sealand and Molossia.) For America’s sake, Veneziano fervently hoped this letter was about Romano. Veneziano had been involved with Germany for _decades_ , ever since Prussia helped them get together shortly after the end of the Cold War, and he had been in love with Germany for much longer than that. He would never be able to reciprocate another nation’s affections.

Veneziano hurriedly read the next few lines.

_a love that I unfortunately didn’t realize until it was too late. As much as I wish things were different, I think Lovino might be in love with someone else. And even if he isn’t, I don’t think he would ever return my feelings._

Veneziano let out an exhale of relief when he saw that the letter was about Romano, not him. When he didn’t have to worry about potentially turning America down at some point in the future, it was much easier to focus on what he had actually written.

_I first came to know Lovino when he stayed with me in my house several years ago. We only lived together for a short period of time, but he made a strong impression on me. I felt so lost when he had to leave, but at the time I thought my feelings were just friendship. I had never been in love before, so I was confused and maybe (way deep down) a little scared of how I felt about him. Staying in denial was easier than acknowledging the truth, but eventually I couldn’t do that anymore._

Veneziano could understand how that had happened. America was relatively young for a country, and he could come across as quite naïve at times. Based on what he said, he had never actually been in a relationship, so it wasn’t surprising that he would mistake romantic yearnings for missing the absence of a close friend. Falling in love could be scary even for humans, and relationships were infinitely more complicated for nations, so the denial was understandable too.

_Since he moved out, we have seen each other as part of the work we do for a large international corporation and maintained fairly regular contact outside of that. I don’t get to spend as much time with Lovino as I’d like since he’s based in Rome and I’m based in Washington D.C., but we’re still good friends despite the distance._

_The other guy I mentioned before is Antonio, a co-worker of ours. Lovino and Antonio go way back, and I’m sick with jealousy at how close they are. Antonio has known Lovino since he was a little kid, and I know I could never compete with that kind of history. It doesn’t help that Antonio lives much closer to Lovino than I do and gets to see him more often. When they’re around each other at work, Antonio showers Lovino with affection and flirts with him constantly. Lovino seems to get annoyed by Antonio a lot (which he does to everyone, including me), but he doesn’t really try to make Antonio back off. If he wanted someone to leave him alone, Lovino would have no problem being mean, so I’m worried that he lets Antonio flirt with him because he likes him back. I don’t think they’re together yet, but it seems inevitable that they will be together someday, and I don’t what I’ll do when that happens._

Veneziano frowned skeptically at the description of Spain and Romano’s relationship. America wasn’t entirely wrong about Spain and Romano’s closeness or the way Spain seemed to dote upon his former henchman, but Veneziano wasn’t sure that it meant what America thought it did. He certainly disagreed with America’s defeatist conclusions.

_But that’s not the only reason I haven’t said anything. The truth is, I’m a coward. I’m afraid of losing Lovino’s friendship, afraid of making an idiot out of myself, and afraid of having my heart broken and never being able to feel happy again. Plus, the more I think about it, the more hopeless I feel. Why the hell would Lovino want someone like me when Antonio’s right there? Antonio knows how to sweep just about anyone off their feet, and I’m so inexperienced that I’d probably look like a joke in comparison to him._

Veneziano hadn’t expected America to be so unconfident. At world meetings, he was always the loudest and most idealistic voice in the room. Others would criticize his off-the-wall ideas, but their criticism seemed to bounce right off him, and America continued to be relentlessly cheerful and so proud it edged on arrogance. But this letter proved that there was another side to America, a side that was sentimental, thoughtful, and more vulnerable than Veneziano could have ever predicted. He continued to read on.

_I wish I could stop being in love with him. It hurts so much to daydream about the two of us having a life together when I know that’s never going to happen. I can’t put my bomber jacket on him, kiss him in front of everybody, or fall asleep next to him, and it hurts. God, what I wouldn’t give just to hold his hand, even if it only lasted for five seconds. Those five seconds would be the best time of my life._

_The worst part of it all is that, as miserable as being in love with him makes me feel, Lovino himself makes me so happy. He’s way more amazing than he gives himself credit for, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed louder or smiled brighter than when I’m talking to him. I know for certain that I’ve only felt that weird fluttering sensation in my stomach people call butterflies when we’re spending time alone together. Maybe I’m selfish, maybe I’m crazy, but I cherish every tiny moment I get with Lovino. I don’t think I could give him up for anything._

Tears pricked at Veneziano’s eyes, and he quickly reached for the tissue box in the middle of the table before he could blot out America’s beautiful words. It was clear as day that America truly loved Romano, just the way that Veneziano truly loved Germany. The longing in those last two paragraphs had been palpable, and Veneziano needed a moment to collect himself.

“Feliciano, are you okay?” The question came from Francesca, a shy young woman attending the University of Verona. She rarely spoke up during the meetings, and Feliciano was hoping that he could help Francesca break out of her shell.

“I’m fine,” Feliciano replied. “My friend, he’s just… really in love. I know most of the people who write to us are in love or at least strongly infatuated, but this letter seems particularly sincere to me. My friend didn’t hold anything back when he wrote to us.”

Francesca gave him a small smile. “Well, I hope it works out for him.”

“I do too.” Romano’s happiness would always take top priority since he was famiglia. But after reading this letter, he really wanted America to be happy too.

Veneziano was coming to the end of the letter. There was only one short paragraph left.

_I don’t have much else to say, so I should probably finish up this letter. Thanks for reading this far, and sorry for rambling a lot. If you’ve got any advice or even just some sympathetic words that might make me feel better, I’d appreciate it._

_Gratefully yours,_

_Alfred F. Jones_ _☆_

After he finished reading the letter, Veneziano folded it back into thirds and headed off to the kitchen to get a cappuccino. A break would help him sort through his thoughts, and caffeine would give him an extra burst of energy. He had a feeling that his response would take a while to compose.

* * *

Alfred was flicking through his mail and tossing most of it into a container to be recycled later. All the junk mail he didn’t need was just killing trees, but at least Alfred could make sure that paper didn’t go completely to waste. There were also a couple of bills, which Alfred saved to deal with later.

In the middle of the stack he found an envelope about the same size as most of the bills, but he could tell from the way his name was written in elegant, flowing cursive that it was an actual letter. He checked the return address and saw that it was from Verona, Italy. Oh, this must mean somebody finally wrote him back! Alfred immediately ceased what he was doing and took the letter with him to the living room so he could sit down and read it in his favorite armchair.

Once he was comfortably settled, Alfred ripped open the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper. He saw that his own letter had been repackaged and sent back to him, which was strange, but he didn’t think much of it. He was too eager to see what advice “Juliet’s secretary” had to offer him.

_Dear Alfred,_

_As I read through your letter, I was struck by your candor, and in the spirit of mutual honesty, I must confess something to you. I am one of Juliet’s secretaries, but I am not the stranger you were probably expecting to receive a letter from._

Alfred squinted down at the paper and frowned. What a bizarre way to start off a letter! And what did they mean by saying they weren’t a stranger?

_I am Italia Veneziano a.k.a. Feliciano Vargas,_

“Oh fuck. Oh God no. His own fucking brother! Shit!” This was the humiliation Alfred had hoped he might be able to avoid by not writing into an advice columnist who published the letters they received. But that didn’t work if the person who answered your letter was related to the guy you wrote a letter about!

Jesus Christ, Romano probably already knew, didn’t he? He knew, and he’d start avoiding Alfred’s calls and dodging him at world meetings because he’d naturally be creeped out by Alfred’s long, rambling letter detailing how he was _hopelessly in love with him_. He could only hope that Romano would be too afraid to confront him and that neither of the Italy brothers were big enough assholes to show his letter to the rest of the world. So many countries already hated him for being a superpower, and they’d just love to have something new they could make fun of, something to make him look like even more of an imbecile than they thought he was. And then there was Spain, who already seemed to dislike him for no apparent reason. If he found out America was secretly in love with his precious little Romanito, he’d probably try to decapitate him with that axe he still carried around sometimes.

America was crying so hard that his glasses fogged up within seconds. He hastily took them off and let himself sob out his fear and pain for the next few minutes. In the middle of it, Scout, America’s perpetually hungry Maine Coon, climbed onto the arm of the chair and meowed at him for lunch. America had no choice but to get up and feed his cat in the kitchen. Once he was done with that, he felt slightly calmer. He returned to the living room, hesitating before he sat down and continued reading that damn letter.

Half of him wanted to throw the letter away, curl up into a ball on his bed, and listen to sad music on his iPod until he forgot that the rest of the world existed. The other half of him was too paranoid to ignore his problem and needed to see just how much trouble he was in. Ultimately, his paranoid side won out over the side that wanted to avoid the world.

America cleaned his glasses, put them back on his face, and sat down to continue reading where he had left off.

_and I hope you can forgive me for reading your letter. After consulting with the other secretaries (while still protecting your identity as a nation, of course), I was persuaded to read your letter in the belief that my familiarity with you as an individual might enable me to offer advice that someone who knew you only by words on a piece of paper could not. I read your letter with the intent to help you, not to discover your secrets or harm you in any way. I have not disclosed the contents of your letter to anyone else, human or nation, and I never will. As evidence of my sincerity, I have mailed your letter back to you in this envelope to help you protect your privacy rather than adding it to the Juliet Club’s archives._

Veneziano’s words were unexpectedly comforting. America doubted that Veneziano had been operating on pure altruism; he’d probably been too curious after getting the letter to not read it. America was a curious guy, so he might’ve done the same thing if he’d been in Venezianio’s shoes. But regardless of his motives, it didn’t seem like North Italy was planning to tell everyone. If he wanted to spread the news around, he would’ve kept the letter as proof, and he hadn’t.

_Now, with that formality out of the way, I will respond to your letter and give you the best advice I possibly can. I can’t be the compassionate stranger you were hoping for, but I can be your friend, Alfred. And as your friend, I want you to be truly happy, not just pretend to be happy in front of everyone. It pained me to learn that you have been silently suffering without anyone to comfort you, especially once I learned the reason why._

_As an Italian, famiglia is extremely important to me. Lovino and I have been forced to separate many times throughout our history, and that makes us even more protective of each other. It’s not easy for me to trust someone who wants to be in a relationship with Lovino, and I was shocked when I first read that you were in love with my fratello. But later, when I read the passage in which you wrote about how Lovino makes you happy and how much you wish to be with him, I was moved to tears by your heartfelt words. I believe that I can trust you to take care of Lovino’s fragile heart, and I hope that you will continue to be worthy of that trust in the future._

Alfred blinked in surprise and reread the last sentence again. Feliciano _approved_ of him? That was a relief. It would have been much more difficult for Alfred if Lovino’s brother had tried to keep them away from each other. Alfred also related to what Veneziano said about being protective of your family; a similar dynamic existed between him and Canada. If (and that was a huge if) he was ever lucky enough to ever actually be in a relationship with Romano, America vowed that he would never give North Italy a reason to doubt him.

_Onto the actual advice. You should stop comparing yourself to Spagna and stop obsessing over his friendship with Lovino. Jealousy is a difficult thing to control, but try to consider the matter rationally._

Alfred snorted dismissively. “Easy enough for you to say.” He didn’t really see how it was irrational to notice the giant elephant in the room and to worry about that elephant eating all your peanuts. Spain obviously liked Romano as a hell of a lot more than a friend judging by how much he flirted with him, and America couldn’t get a clear read of how Romano felt about Spain. That ambiguity would drive anyone crazy.

_Your friendship with Lovino has nothing to do with his friendship with Tonio. And, yes, I keep referring to it as a friendship, because I know for a fact that they are not together. Lovino would tell me if he was seriously involved with someone, and Antonio is no good at keeping secrets. If he were seeing anyone, the rest of the world would know within a few hours._

Huh, that made sense. If Spain ever got together with Romano, he’d tell Francis, who would probably gossip about it to everyone, and Gilbert, who would probably post about it on that blog he updated at least once a day. Plus, Veneziano would definitely know if his own brother was in a relationship.

But America couldn’t help feeling insecure every time he saw Spain and Romano together. He felt like the dorky freshman pining for a popular cheerleader two grade levels above him. Spain, in this tortured metaphor, was the star player on the football team. They naturally fit together, or at least that’s what everyone thought. But Romano wasn’t with Spain, so maybe America wasn’t completely stupid to feel like there was still a glimmer of hope.

_You may not have known Lovino for as long as Antonio has, but that doesn’t make your bond with him any less special. If people automatically fell in love with whoever they have known the longest, wouldn’t you be in love with England instead of my brother?_

Oh. America hadn’t thought of it that way. He knew people assumed weird stuff about him and England, but he’d always thought of England as his friend/quasi big brother figure. England would always matter to America, but he wasn’t someone America could ever see himself dating. Was that how Romano saw Spain?

_For the record, Lovino seems quite fond of you, and he doesn’t allow himself to get close to that many people. You should feel special for that alone._

America smiled softly and continued.

_You expressed your feelings so clearly and beautifully in your letter that I have no idea how you could doubt your ability to woo my brother. Yes, you are inexperienced at romance, but that doesn’t mean you are incapable. At its core, love is about the miraculous phenomenon of two souls uniting as one, not the grand gestures and dramatic declarations you might find in a Hollywood film. When you’re with the right person, a simple walk alone in the moonlight can make you feel as if you are soaring in the heavens, and an awkwardly phrased confession is just as worthwhile as an eloquent Petrarchan sonnet. Even if you can’t play the part of a suave leading man in the moment, I’m sure your sincerity and devotion will shine through, and that’s what truly counts. _

Veneziano could be poetic when the mood struck him, that was for sure. “The miraculous phenomenon of two souls uniting as one”? America wouldn’t have been able to come up with a line that schmaltzy in a million years, and certainly not when he was nervous and had to say something right away. Veneziano hadn’t ruled out grand gestures entirely, but he was probably right to steer America in a different direction. Lovino would be embarrassed by a grand gesture that made him the center of public attention, which limited what America could do. Skywriting probably wasn’t on the list, unfortunately. Skywriting was one of the most amazing things ever.

America was getting sidetracked. He shook his head and started the next paragraph.

_For the record, I don’t think you’re a coward, America. Telling someone you love them can be scarier than fighting off an army of 10,000 alien ghosts!_

“I don’t know, ghosts are pretty scary.” Aliens were awesome, but ghosts were creepy. Even a movie about ghosts could give America terrible nightmares. A whole army of them would be daunting, but America could totally fight them off if he had to. That’s what heroes did!

_But for your sake (and his), I hope you tell Lovino how you feel soon. Grandpa Rome has a certain expression I’m sure you’ve heard before: carpe diem. Which means you must seize the day!_

It was odd how much this letter felt like a pep talk. Feliciano wasn’t in the same room, of course, but it felt like he was. America could imagine him saying all those words and using vigorous hand gestures to get his point across. He grinned at the thought, and because this pep talk was strangely effective. The idea of telling Lovino how he felt didn’t seem quite as crazy as it had a few hours ago.

_The next world conference is in your house, sì? You should find Lovino after the meeting and take him out on the town. You know your cities far better than I do, so I’m sure you can think of something you would both enjoy doing together. Once Lovino is relaxed and the moment is right, take him somewhere private and confess your love._

The plan was feasible. Washington, D.C. had lots of interesting stuff, and he was sure Lovino hadn’t seen most of it before. America still wasn’t sure about the whole confessing his feelings thing, but it would be nice to spend some time with Romano one-on-one, without the other nations to distract them. There was no reason they couldn’t hang out as friends.

_I wish I could confidently inform you that Lovino reciprocates your feelings, but my brother has always been intensely private about such matters. Much like you, he doesn’t want anyone, even famiglia, to see him in a vulnerable light, so he has never told me whom he loves, if he loves anyone that way. However, I can tell you that Lovino cherishes your friendship. He would never respond cruelly to an honest declaration of amore, and he would not stop being your friend for that reason either._

The excited grin slipped off America’s face and was replaced with a concerned frown. There was a not insignificant chance Lovino would turn him down, and Alfred didn’t know how he would cope if that happened. Even if Lovino still wanted to be his friend, as Feliciano had assured him he would, Alfred didn’t want to put him in an awkward position.

But if there was even the slightest chance Lovino felt the same way, America would have to take it, wouldn’t he? If he had only ever stuck to the limits of what was safe and comfortable, he would’ve never declared independence, stretched from sea to shining sea, or gone to the moon. America had been born to reach for possibilities, even those no one else could see. He felt that sense of possibility dawning closer as he finished Feliciano’s letter.

_I wish you all the luck in the world, and I hope that you take my advice under consideration. You deserve the chance to express your love, and my brother deserves the chance to hear what you have to say. The way you feel about Lovino is too beautiful and precious to remain locked away inside your heart forever._

_With warmest regards,_

_Juliet’s secretary (Feliciano)_

Alfred set the letter down on a nearby side table and ran a hand through his hair as he considered what to do. There were possible activities to deliberate, reservations to make, schedules to check online… but the first step was to make a phone call.

* * *

South Italy was comfortably ensconced on a couch next to his brother, sipping at a glass of wine and wrapped up in a blanket as he watched the news. It was getting late, so he would probably head off to bed soon.

His cell phone, which had been charging by the wall, rang, and he got up to see who it was.

Veneziano yawned and leaned back against a pillow. “Ve, who would be calling so late?”

Romano rolled his eyes as he saw the name on the screen. “It’s America.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his brother straightening up as he answered the call. That was weird. “Hey, dipshit, did you forget the time difference again?”

A warm chuckle sounded down the phone line, and Romano closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting that warmth seep into his bones. _Dio, he has no idea what he’s doing to me._ Of course, he didn’t want Alfred to know just how easily he affected him, because then he would figure out that he had Lovino wrapped around his little finger. That would be a level of humiliation Lovino wasn’t accustomed to.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Alfred apologized, sounding neither contrite nor perturbed by Romano’s rude greeting. “I just wanted to check something with you real quick, if you’ve got the time.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“Have… umm… have you booked a flight to the next world meeting yet?”

“I don’t think so, that’s three weeks away.” Lovino covered the phone with his hand. “Feli, you haven’t bought us plane tickets to the next world meeting yet, have you?”

Feli shook his head. “No, I was planning to do it soon, though.”

Lovino removed his hand to speak to Alfred again. “We haven’t. Why?”

“I was hoping you could book your return flight the day after the world meeting instead of leaving right away.” He took a deep breath, like he was nervous for some inexplicable reason. “I was hoping we could do something together.”

“Oh.” America wanted to spend time with him? Suddenly, an insecure thought popped into his head. “With just me, or—”

“Just you,” America clarified. “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, just the two of us. I kind of miss it.”

Alfred’s voice had gone quiet near the end there, and Lovino responded in kind, voice lowering to nearly a whisper. “I kind of miss it too.”

For a moment, all he could hear was Alfred’s soft breathing over the phone line. It was strangely intimate hearing America’s breath right in his ear like that. Lovino licked his lips, almost like he was anticipating a kiss or something impossible like that.

Alfred’s loud, excited voice instantly killed the mood. “Awesome! I’m gonna plan so much fun stuff for us to do together! You’re gonna have a great time, Lovi!”

“Heh, whatever you say, burger bastard.” The words weren’t exactly nice, but the tone was affectionate. And his smile, which luckily Alfred couldn’t see, was amused and fond.

“How late is it where you are anyway?”

Lovino glanced at a clock on the far wall. “A little past 11.”

“Damn, I guess I’m gonna have to let you go then. Next time, I’ll have to remember to call you earlier in the day.”

He probably wouldn’t. Alfred was impulsive, and he didn’t always stop to think about things like time zones. It was something you just had to get used to with him.

“Ciao, Alfredo.”

“Good night, Lovino. I’ll see you in three weeks.” America ended the phone call, and Romano sighed as he plugged his phone back into the charger.

When he returned to the couch and his glass of wine, Feliciano scooted closer to him. “So, tell me, what was all that about?”

Lovino shrugged, deciding for now to pretend that he didn’t notice Feli being weirdly curious. “Nothing. Alfred just wanted to do something with me after the world meeting, so he called to make sure I didn’t fly back that night.”

Feliciano squealed. “Lovi, this is so exciting! You have a date with America!”

Lovino coughed and barely managed not to spill his wine everywhere. “Che cazzo!? It’s not a date, idiota.”

“It sounds like a date,” Feliciano said, grinning obnoxiously.

Lovino scowled and turned to look at the pretty female news anchor on the television instead of his ridiculous little brother. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

* * *

Three weeks later, Romano had to concede that this evening felt a hell of a lot like a date, even if America had only referred to it as “hanging out.”

America had planned the evening meticulously to suit Lovino’s taste. They began with dinner at an Italian restaurant that even Lovino could admit was pretty good. Lovino had been at ease reading off the menu in Italian and casually flirting with the waitress, who had blushed and giggled before she walked away to go put in their appetizer order.

Alfred smirked at him from across the table. “Is this what happens every time you go out for dinner?”

Lovino shrugged. “It doesn’t happen as often in Italy. American women seem to find me really interesting for some reason.”

Alfred muttered something under his breath that sounded a hell of a lot like “not just the women” and opened up the menu before Lovino could question him about it. “So, what are you thinking of for the entrée?”

The main course was delicious and authentically Italian, but the portion sizes were ridiculously American. Lovino had to take part of his dinner home, and Alfred didn’t only by virtue of the fact that he was a glutton. They ended the meal with a shared tiramisu (mostly Alfred’s, but Lovino stole a few bites from the plate) and the restaurant’s complimentary after dinner drinks. He had offered to split the bill, but Alfred insisted on paying for both of them.

After a quick stop for Lovino to leave his leftovers in his hotel room’s mini-fridge, they headed off to their next destination, Blues Alley. The small converted carriage house reminded Lovino of those speakeasies they used to visit back when they lived together, and Alfred had smiled when he remarked upon the resemblance.

“That was the reason why I took you here. I thought it would bring back some fond memories for us.” He guided them through the dimly lit room over to the bar, where they both ordered drinks. They needed to show IDs, of course, and Alfred flashed a convincing one claiming that he had turned 21 a few months ago.

Lovino leaned up to whisper to him. “Still breaking the law, Al?”

“Only on special occasions,” Alfred murmured. “I can’t do it too often, or else the bar owner would get in trouble, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Lovino nodded, but his mind was spinning off in an entirely different direction. Why was this evening a special occasion? Over the phone, Alfred had made it sound like just an outing for them to get together as friends. He was snapped out of his thoughts once the bartender arrived with their cocktails, and Al led them over to a small table in the center of the room so they could get a good spot before the performance started.

Maybe it was the cocktail (plus the wine he’d had at dinner). Maybe it was the cozy atmosphere, which encouraged you to get up close and personal with your date. Maybe it was the saxophone and piano on stage weaving a nostalgic magic upon the audience, especially for two nations who had spent a lot of time together during the Jazz Age. All Lovino knew was that by the middle of the performance, he was snuggled into Alfred’s side, and Alfred had put an arm around him. Alfred was warm and his leather jacket smelled faintly of an unidentifiable cologne, warm grass, and sunshine, so Lovino decided it would okay to rest against his old friend for a while.

After the show finished with a standing ovation, Alfred called a cab, which took them back towards the Capitol Building. From there, they strolled along the National Mall in a comfortable silence, occasionally broken when Alfred pointed out interesting facts about the monuments glowing white in the distance. A few minutes into their walk, Lovino had shivered due to the nighttime drop in temperature, and Alfred had taken off his bomber jacket and handed it to him without comment. Lovino had taken the jacket with a quiet “grazie” and felt much better with leather sleeves falling too far down his hands. Wearing the jacket felt like receiving a full body hug from the American, which was something Lovino had always appreciated more than anyone who was just a friend should.

When they passed by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, a solemn frown appeared on America’s face. He traced his fingers along the wall of names, probably remembering friends he’d lost in that war, and Romano didn’t think twice before he reached out to take America’s other hand. It seemed like the right thing to do.

They were still holding hands by the time they stepped inside the Lincoln Memorial, which looked much more impressive in person than it did in photographs or films. Alfred stared up at the face of his former president for a moment, and then he started to speak.

“I spent most of the war bedridden,” Alfred recalled. “It was the hardest thing that I’ve ever gone through, watching my children killing each other in droves like that, and all because of something so horrible and inhumane it should’ve never existed in the first place. I wanted so badly to help my country, but I couldn’t, because I _was_ the country.”

Romano squeezed America’s hand in a feeble attempt at comfort. “Civil wars suck, caro.” Regular wars, where you fought against people who you might have considered close friends only a few years ago, were painful enough. Civil wars, where your people tried to destroy you from the inside out or you had to fight against your fratello, were their own special brand of hell.

America wheezed, a pathetic attempt at a laugh. “Yeah. When the Battle of Gettysburg happened, I was in so much pain that I thought I was gonna die. But somehow I kept living. And then, about four months later, Lincoln made that speech right over there.” America pointed to where the Gettysburg Address had been carved into stone. “Because of him, I was glad I had lived. I felt hope for the first time since South Carolina had seceded, and I wanted to become the kind of nation my president thought I could be. I’m still not sure if I’m there yet.”

“I think he’d be proud of how far you’ve come,” Romano answered honestly. America wasn’t perfect. No nation was. But he’d come a long way in 150 years. Back then, when Lincoln had made that speech, could he have even imagined the Civil Rights movement or an African-American president?

“I hope so.” Finally, Alfred turned to look at Lovino, blue eyes sparkling under his glasses and the heavy artificial light. “I’m glad I decided to show this to you. I know this place can get a little touristy, but it’s always felt really personal to me, especially after MLK, Jr. came here too. I like being with you, Lovino, and I like telling you about my history. Even the parts that it hurts to talk about.”

Lovino gulped, suddenly nervous at the personal direction this conversation had taken. “Alfred, I… I like being with you too. But I have to ask, why did you want me to come out with you tonight? This evening has been nice, don’t get me wrong, but it feels like it’s been leading somewhere. Somewhere significant. Or am I just imagining things?” This was all Feliciano’s fault. He had relentlessly teased Romano about his “date with America” for almost an entire month, and those insinuations had gotten into Lovino’s head enough to make him start imagining things that weren’t even there. Stupid, stupid Feliciano.

America glanced back at the statue of his president. “I guess it’s time for me to be honest, huh, Abe?” The statue didn’t answer his rhetorical question, obviously, but after a moment America turned towards Romano with a serious look in his eyes as if “Abe” had given him the answer he needed. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else. I can’t do it when I feel like Abe Lincoln’s watching me.”

Romano laughed at the look of distaste on America’s face, privately thinking that his immature pout was cute enough to kiss. “Let’s go, then.”

America led him back down the steps and headed towards the big reflecting pool that stretched all the way to the Washington Monument on the other side. He walked onto the grass on the right side of the pool, and Lovino followed him. When Alfred was sufficiently far enough away to feel like Abraham Lincoln wasn’t staring at them, he sat down, patting the space next to him. Lovino wrinkled his nose, thinking of how ridiculous it was that he was about to get grass stains on his expensive Armani trousers (something he’d only do for Alfred), but sat down regardless.

America twisted his body to face Romano and took hold of both his hands. He stared down at them, brushing the pad of his thumb over Romano’s knuckles.

“You’ve got really cute hands, you know.”

Lovino was blushing at the random compliment, but he still managed to quirk a skeptical eyebrow at Alfred. “You really walked all the way down here to talk about my hands?”

“No,” he admitted, huffing out a loud breath in frustration. “But telling you is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

Romano’s heart pounded in anticipation. He had a feeling that he knew where this was going, but he wouldn’t fully believe it until America actually said it.

Lovino inched as close to his longtime friend as he could get, letting their legs brush against each other. He couldn’t get any closer without crawling onto Alfred’s lap (which was an appealing thought, but not appropriate for their current circumstances).

“It’s okay,” Lovino said. “Take as much time as you need.”

Alfred took a minute, but it felt like hours. He gripped Lovino’s fingers just a little too tight, and then he gazed straight into Lovino’s eyes, expression warring between panic and determination.

“I… the reason I invited you out here tonight is that I needed to tell you something. Something I probably should’ve said a long time ago, but I didn’t have the courage until now.” He paused, and Lovino held his breath, desperately hoping he hadn’t somehow misread the situation. “I love you,” Alfred finally whispered, voice trembling with emotion. “I’m in love with you. Like romantically.”

Lovino grinned broadly, and his eyes started watering from a dizzy combination of joy and relief. He probably looked pretty stupid, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, because he was happier than he could ever remember being. “I love you too, dumbass. _I’m in love with you_ ,” he mocked, doing a poor imitation of Alfred’s voice. “ _Like romantically_.”

Alfred giggled and playfully tilted his head to the side, like an adorable little puppy. “Does that mean I can kiss you now?”

Lovino leaned up towards him, dropping one of Alfred’s hands so he could grip the back of his neck instead. “It means I’m gonna kick your ass if you ask any more stupid questions, _tesoro_.”

Alfred beamed at him. “Awesome.” As he started to lean down, Lovino’s eyes fluttered shut automatically. The kiss was sweet and loving, with a hint of shyness, and Lovino let Alfred control the pace at first.

Until the tip of Alfred’s tongue swept over his lips. Then the sweetness was replaced with passion and heat, and they got a little carried away.

Somehow, Lovino ended up straddling Alfred’s lap, licking the roof of his mouth as he ran his fingers through Alfred’s hair. Alfred was moaning underneath him, hands shifting back and forth between Lovino’s waist and his hips like he couldn’t make up his damn mind where to put them.

They had to break the kiss eventually to breathe, but they didn’t move far, panting against each other’s mouths with closed eyes.

“Wow,” Alfred said. “That was amazing. You’re an amazing kisser, Lovino.”

Lovino opened his eyes and smirked proudly. “Amazing, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it since the 20s, so I had a lot of time to build it up in my mind. Nothing I pictured came close to that.”

Lovino was stunned. “The… the 1920s? Cristo, that’s almost an entire century! Why the hell didn’t you say anything sooner?!”

Alfred frowned and looked away somewhere over Lovino’s shoulder. “I… I didn’t understand why I was having those thoughts about you at first. That kind of thing was all so new to me. When you left, I got really depressed and had a drinking problem for a while, but I thought it was ‘cause of everything else going wrong in my life at the time. Then World War II happened, and it’s not like I could’ve said anything then.”

Lovino ran a finger over the shell of Alfred’s ear. “What about after?” he prompted gently.

Alfred blushed. “After, I could’ve said something, but I thought you were sort of involved with Spain.”

“What? Me and Spain?!”

He nodded sheepishly. “You guys seemed really close, and I knew I couldn’t get in the way of that. It wouldn’t have mattered how I felt about you if you were in love with someone else.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “I’ve never thought of Spain that way.” Spain was just Spain. He gave Romano silly nicknames and liked to hug him a lot, but he’d treated Romano that way since he was a child. He didn’t think Spain had any romantic designs on him.

“I know that _now_ , but I didn’t know what to think before! So it was easier to deny everything than deal with it. At least until that time in 1985, when you got drunk off your ass in Paris and lost the key to your hotel room. Do you remember?”

Romano groaned at the embarrassing memory. “I wish I could forget.” He remembered acting like an intoxicated fool, clinging to America’s arm and begging to share his room after the hotel receptionist had acted snooty after he’d asked if he could sleep in the lobby. America had surprisingly agreed, and he’d let Lovino take the bed while he slept on a tiny, cramped sofa. The next morning, he’d gone across the street to buy coffee and croissants for breakfast, which wasn’t really necessary since he could’ve just ordered room service. When he returned, Lovino woke up and started complaining about the alarm clock America had set and the light that was giving him a terrible headache. After turning off the alarm clock, America had offered him two Tylenol capsules, a café au lait, and two croissants, and they ate breakfast together that morning. Now that he thought about it, America had been suspiciously nice to Lovino back then.

America smiled, obviously remembering the event with much more nostalgia than Lovino did. “I woke up first that morning. You were still asleep, and you looked so peaceful, like you didn’t have a care in the world. The sunlight was streaming in from the window at an angle, and it made your hair and your face look exceptionally gorgeous.” He sighed and gave Lovino a rueful look. “If I’d had less self-control, I would’ve gotten into that bed to cuddle with you. I felt pretty tempted. But I knew that wouldn’t end well, so I went across the street to get breakfast instead.”

“Probably the smart thing to do,” Lovino agreed. Back then, he’d loved America just as much as he did now, but he would never react well to waking up in bed with someone he hadn’t expected to be there. Even if it was America, and even if he just wanted a cuddle.

“When I woke up, you were grumpy and mumbling curses, and that was even cuter than when you were asleep. And it was better when you were awake, because then I got to sneak glances at your pretty hazel eyes whenever you weren’t paying attention to me. Your eyes are the most captivating color I’ve ever seen.”

Lovino disagreed with Alfred’s overblown praise. “They’re not _that_ special.” But still, America must’ve been fascinated by something back then. He had stared at Lovino a _lot_ that morning. At one point, he had even stopped eating for a few seconds, and Lovino had asked Alfred why he was being so weird. Alfred had claimed it was nothing and started eating again, so Lovino dropped the matter as unimportant.

“They _are_ ,” Alfred insisted, squeezing his waist slightly for emphasis. “Just trust me, okay? Anyways, we were eating breakfast, and I couldn’t stop staring at you. Everything you did fascinated me, even the way you nibbled at your croissant, and I felt all this strong emotion, but I couldn’t put a name to it. Then I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, doing things like eating breakfast together, and my brain screeched to a halt. When you asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I knew that I loved you and would never stop loving you. But I couldn’t tell you because—”

Lovino shook his head. “You don’t have to say it.” He couldn’t stand to hear Alfred say it again, to imagine the pain he must have felt while he was operating under that false assumption. He leaned in to kiss him once more, softly stroking Alfred’s jaw until America sighed contently underneath him. With a great deal of reluctance, he pulled away to speak. “We were stupid in the past, but that doesn’t matter.” America wasn’t the only one who could’ve said something ages ago. “All that matters is that we aren’t being stupid anymore.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“If you take me back to your mansion, I’ll prove that you’re the only one I want, cuore mio.” He trailed his fingers suggestively along the buttons running down Alfred’s dress shirt, waiting until he understood.

Alfred’s eyes widened a few seconds later, and a blush spread across his cheeks, prominent enough to be visible even in the darkness surrounding them. “Yeah, okay, that definitely sounds a _lot_ better.”

Lovino laughed and wiggled off of Alfred’s lap so that he could stand. “Come on. I think it’s time for you to take me home already.”

Alfred bounced up onto his feet and took Lovino’s hand. “I’ll call a cab. It’ll take only about twenty minutes to get back to my place from here.”

“I’m glad I won’t have to wait too long.”

They kissed again, simply because they wanted to, and Alfred called for a taxi. The taxi arrived promptly, and Alfred wrapped his arms around Lovino and told the driver his home address as soon as they got inside. As the car drove off, Lovino tucked his face into the space where Alfred’s neck met his shoulder and ignored the pop song playing on the radio in favor of listening to his lover’s relaxed breathing.

A few minutes into their ride, Alfred chuckled suddenly. “I’ll probably have to thank your brother when I drop you off at the airport tomorrow.”

“Thank Feliciano? Why?”

“He gave me some advice when I really needed it. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had the courage to tell you anything tonight. You’d probably be on a flight back to Rome by now.”

Ah, so that was why Feliciano had been so interested in the phone call from Alfred three weeks ago and so insistent about the idea that he and Alfred were going on a date, not just a normal friendly outing. Ordinarily, Lovino would resent the fact that his little brother had been scheming to arrange his love life behind his back, but now he was so happy that he didn’t mind. He would even permit Feliciano to say the words “I told you so.”

Lovino pressed a discreet kiss against the side of Alfred’s neck. “I suppose I’ll have to thank him as well. Because now I have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read more about my thought process while writing this fic, visit [this link](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1lq5-9mLQuD_tPuHb18G6dPfb3QX2IaneWHA_DBv4SgM/).


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